


if you're lonely, wake me

by astrid (alharper)



Category: Warcraft - All Media Types, World of Warcraft
Genre: ? pretty low key, M/M, Size Kink, So i expected this to get jossed immediately but DAMN, mid-BFA, presume Thrall never married Aggra, probably somewhat & loose w/canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-27
Updated: 2018-05-27
Packaged: 2019-05-14 08:53:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14766449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alharper/pseuds/astrid
Summary: A king of Stormwind propositioning him - let alone in déshabillé and a state of kidnap - is not something Thrall would ever have considered as a possible outcome of visiting Orgrimmar, even in the sort of fantasies he does not think about outside of the moment.Then again, while he had liked Varian well enough by the end… well. Perhaps it would have entered some fantasy, in some form, given the opportunity to meet Anduin more recently, with his long limbs and sweet face and apparent disinterest in hiding his desire to scale Thrall like his own personal mountain.





	if you're lonely, wake me

**Author's Note:**

> huge thanks to mary for getting my shit together, & for letting me bully her into knowing this much about my dumb game to begin with

Orgrimmar has changed a great deal in the years since Thrall last had occasion to visit, but the overall feeling is still the same - the taste of red dust in the air, the bleached cast everything takes on under the beating sun of midday. Even the background noise of a busy city that speaks Orcish instead of common is soothing and familiar, and that first moment of bittersweet nostalgia, looking out over the valley of strength, is almost overwhelming.

As he passes through the cool, high hall of the entrance the oppressive weight of magic dampeners presses onto him, only to give again as he exits, like walking through a brief bubble of darkness.

He dimly recognizes the occasional person, but every grunt seems to know who he is, and there’s something nostalgic about the chorus of _Lok’tar_ that never quite fades as he makes his way west through the Valley of Strength towards the huge, squat new embassy.

He’s a little ahead of schedule, which is fortunate, he thinks - the sky is bright and clear, but the feeling of impending storm is beginning to crackle through the air.

As he walks through the city, a man in purple livery materializes at his elbow - likely in his late 30s when he died, he is now the permanent age of undeath. The red symbol of the Horde has been stamped at his breast, clearly an afterthought to the Undercity branding he otherwise wears.

“Earth Warder,” he grates in a sandpaper voice, “the Dark Lady will see you now.”

Thrall allows the man to lead him largely in silence after the first few attempts to speak to him seem to make him uncomfortable, but at least succeeds at getting a name from him - Gardann, once of Lordaeron, said with perfect gravity - and the hall already has half of the current cadre of Horde leaders assembled by chance.

Sylvanas marks him as he comes in, inclines her head in acknowledgment but does not turn away from where she is, stepped away from the central group in semi-private conversation with an undead warlock he doesn’t recognize.

Thrall settles easily beside Baine, who is openly pleased to see him, and they pass some time in idle chatter as they wait.

Finally, the warlock leaves, and Sylvanas claims her seat, murmurs "Gentlemen.”

Before they can begin, however, a commotion at the door distracts the room. One of Sylvanas’ ever-present attendants rushes in, barely ahead of a group of orcs in full battle gear.

It has been some years since Thrall was part of, or even that close to, a protracted campaign - as opposed to one-off battles - but he remembers it. These men and women shine with that particular focused boisterousness of a company still on high alert, and it's infectious, bolstering the spirits of everyone they pass.

“The orc Commander Vokarn and guests, my lady,” the attendant says, bowing, then nearly trips in his haste to skitter out of the way as they continue to stroll through without marking him.

A very tall, dusky green orc Thrall recognizes only hazily leads the group, still dusty from travel. A bundle, wrapped loosely in tent canvas and with the uncomfortably particular shape of a humanoid body, is tossed haphazardly over one extremely broad shoulder. In the other hand he carries a canvas bag, the sharp clatter of metal against metal ringing from it as he walks.

“Warchief!” the orc calls. “I bring you good tidings!”

The warriors accompanying him laugh, and he dumps his bundle inelegantly onto the floor in the center of the circular room and empties the bag out over the top of it.

A set of plate armor clatters across the rough wooden planks of the floor.

“What’s this?” Sylvanas’ smoky voice curls through the room, and Vokarn hits a fist against his chest formally.

“They have stolen our High Overlord, and so we have now stolen their High King, to trade or kill with dishonor as you will.”

He tips the bundle over with one foot and the edge of the rough canvas unrolls a little, revealing a tangle of gently-curled golden hair obscuring a dirty, sweet-featured face, and Thrall feels his gut tense with sick recognition - recognition which, given the ringing silence, is certainly not limited to himself alone.

Vokarn fishes out a final item from the canvas sack - a full-faced helmet, gold accents on steel to give the stylized head of a lion. He presents it to Sylvanas, inclining his head, and she accepts it gravely.

“Incredible work, Commander Vokarn,” she murmurs. “How on earth did you manage it?”

“Luck, Warchief,” he says bluntly. “We found him separated some days ago, and a mage struck the boy with sleep. We have brought him straight to you, to do with as you will.”

Now it’s been pointed out, Thrall can see the peculiar glimmer and unnatural stillness of arcane magic about the High King’s head.

“Good luck indeed - and good work, Commander,” she says warmly. “Please, take your fine warriors and celebrate them appropriately for their… _good tidings_. I will see you at a later time for discussion of reward. Your company has served the Horde very well.”

“Lok’tar,” Vokarn says, pounding one fist against his chest.

“Lok’tar,” his fellows echo, and they leave, jubilant chatter trailing behind in the otherwise silent room.

“Well,” she says slowly, eyes glittering, “this _is_ quite the coup.”

She crouches easily beside her captive’s head, reaches forward with one hand to brush some of the mess of hair out of his face - she looks almost pensive as she flicks the canvas away, grasps his chin and turns his sleeping face back and forth; he looks startlingly small, prostrate on the floor without any of the usual weight of plate over him, just the thin tights and padded undershirt worn beneath it. Pristine white at some point, now it’s stained and torn, no white left under the rusty red dust of Durotar.

“It _would_ be satisfying the send them back the head of their boy-king,” she says wistfully, her thumb stroking against his jaw in a parody of tenderness.

“Consider who would follow, should you eliminate the boy as leader,” Baine rumbles, and she sighs.

“Oh, I know that well enough - Greymane and Proudmoore have no concept of proportionality.”

It’s an incredible statement, coming from a woman who dropped the scourge outside Lordaeron, but Thrall says nothing - grinds his teeth, but says nothing.

“The _real_ question is what they will give up, in order to get him back with all his little limbs attached.”

She straightens up - pushes the boy gently with one foot, and seems satisfied when he still doesn’t react.

“Your thoughts, chieftain?”

“None of mark,” Baine replies, “we _are_ at war. But given the chance to slay Saurfang, he stayed his hand.”

“I will not harm a hair on the head of your sanctimonious little friend,” she says irritably. “So, pray, halt your speeches before they start.”

She picks the helm back up from where she had left it on the seat of her chair, turns it over in her hands contemplatively.

“Given the circumstances, gentlemen, I trust you take no issue with postponing our meeting until tomorrow.”

She catches the eye of the attendant at the door, gestures to the boy, but before she can direct him Thrall finds himself saying,

“I would take him.”

She pauses, hand still in the air, eyebrows climbing.

“ _Would_ you now?”

“He’ll need to be woken, if it has been days, and you may find your cells not reliable enough to keep him, unless our mages are significantly more powerful than they were or you plan to spend the time there yourself.”

He pauses. “I’m a neutral actor, and known to the leadership of the Alliance - you will likely find them more biddable, and inclined to take your word as read, if they know I have responsibility for his well-being.”

“And you don’t think this will affect your neutral status with them?”

“Not providing he is returned alive and unharmed,” Thrall says, unruffled. “My next destination was Stormwind in any case, to speak with the Alliance leadership on the same matter for which I came to speak with you. All told, it would save me quite some time to simply have care of him while he is here.”

Eyes narrowed during this exchange, after a moment she nods, clearly amused.

“All valid points, Guardian. All right - take care you don’t lose him, or the Horde will be the ones to doubt your neutrality, but I entrust to you his supervision until his return. I expect it should not take long - likely we will exchange in the morning. I have no desire to keep him under my thumb longer than necessary, given I plan to be _respectful_ about it.”

She smirks suddenly.

“It could be tonight, but I like to make the wolf king sweat, and in these grim times, we must take our fun where we can.”

Lok’themar laughs, and even Baine looks reluctantly amused - Genn Greymane has made an impression in the years since he rose to prominence beside the central Alliance leaders, and it has not been a friendly one.

“The day is turning to be a good sight better than it started, my friends,” she says. “I only wish your night as good as mine shall be.”

She leaves, and the other leaders largely leave with her - Gallywix skirts closer to the center of the room than necessary, and looking like he would very much like to kick the prone form there, but Baine’s steady stare seems to make him think better of it.

“Even as king, he finds trouble,” Baine sighs as he rises to follow them out, and grasps Thrall’s shoulder on the way past.

“Whatever perils this war may bring, I am glad you’ll not be losing a friend today,” Thrall tells him quietly.

“Or you,” Baine replies. “He does have an uncommon gift for making friends of us all, doesn’t he?”

Gardann materializes beside him as he scoops the boy up, wrapping him again to hide the distinctive hair before they make their way from the diplomat’s hall to chambers within Grommash Hold.

There aren’t that many of them, but paradoxically, they seem to be everywhere - small, pallid figures in purple livery amongst the earthy colors of orc and goblin architecture.

Thrall thanks the man, who bows silently and disappears back in the hold.

They’re diplomatic chambers, one of the few places left completely unchanged since his time as warchief. Maybe it’s odd, that rooms intended for short use should be comfortingly familiar, but there it is.

The door opens onto a sizeable sitting room with low, rough-hewn furniture to sit four people comfortably around a brazier, a thick zevrah rug to one side of it. Through an archway to one side, a bed in the same style was visible from the door. The huge windows behind it were currently dark, but the room would light up like winter’s veil with the sun.

Thrall lays the boy out on the bed - like everything else in the room, it's comically oversized for a single human form, the damaged but fine cloth of his doublet and hose incongruous against the coarse, clean weave of the bedding.

It has been some years since Thrall had seen him in Pandaria, a solemn boy approaching manhood as he gave testimony in the Temple of the White Tiger. He’s grown into himself in that time, baby softness melting away to leave behind a fine-featured face, clean-lined and handsome.

There’s swelling near one ear, a dark, purplish bruise disappearing into his hair, obscured earlier by rough tangle of his hair and the shimmer around his face, now fading.

Water gathers along Thrall’s hands - reluctant but present, as all calls upon the elements have been the last few years - and he passes it gently over Anduin’s body. Minor abrasions smooth and disappear beneath the cool touch of water, purple fades quickly, swelling recedes. The shimmering fades as well, Anduin’s expression shifting from the false stillness of magical unconsciousness to the natural lines of sleep.

Thrall settles what he can in the room, starts working his way through the thick stack of letters that preceded him to Orgrimmar, and the late afternoon sun is beginning to cede the sky to twilight before a small noise attracts his attention back to the bed.

It takes a few moments but as Thrall watches long-lashed eyes flutter a little, loose limbs tensing before very slowly releasing again - the confused waking typical of the newly-healed.

“Good evening, young King,” he says, and Anduin’s eyes fly open.

“ _Thrall_?”

He sits up - and falls back immediately, dizzy with the sudden movement.

“Patience,” Thrall counsels. “You have been asleep for some time.”

Anduin breathes through it for a moment, slow and steady, moves to sit up in the bed against the headboard.

“Guardian, where am I?” he asks, and he sounds confused, but unafraid. “I thought I was in Ashenvale.”

“Thrall is fine,” he says kindly. “You are safe, but captured through use of arcane magic. They have brought you directly to the Warchief here in Orgrimmar, who even now negotiates for your safe return.”

“ _Orgrimmar_?” Anduin repeats, incredulous, and scrubs a hand over his face. “So how am I here with you?”

“Luck, I am afraid - I am here on Earthen Ring business. It has been some time since I saw you, but you were a good-hearted child, and I offered my service as a neutral actor to help keep your kin and allies calm.”

“Not a child for some time now,” Anduin says wryly. “But thank you, for stepping into that role. I am glad to think their worry might be lessened - and for my life, for what that is worth.”

“Sylvanas knows well enough who sits behind you,” Thrall says mildly. “Baine spoke for your safety; I have spared you only from spending the entire time unconscious, and a day of swelling on your head.”

Anduin sits up carefully, presses a hand to his temple.

“I would know more, if you would indulge me.”

Thrall snorts.

“I imagine you would, but we have reached the end of my knowledge.”

Anduin moves across the bed, which is slightly too tall for human proportions, and slides to the floor carefully. He brushes his hair back as it swings into his face, grimacing to himself at the texture.

He seems reasonably steady on his feet, but Thrall indicates the seat across from him, and he seems grateful for it - there’s an awkwardness to how he moves, as though he’s in pain, though anything acute should have been addressed with his healing earlier. He handles himself differently than he did in Kun Lai, too - there’s a settledness to him, confidence likely hard-won in his years as King, spent passing from one war to another.

The initial reassurance of Thrall’s presence seems to be passing, concern creasing his face and tensing his hands where they worry at the edge of his tunic.

“Thrall -”

A sharp knock interrupts him.

“Who comes?” Thrall calls, cautious.

“Windrunner,” comes the reply. Across from him, Anduin has gone completely still. The concern has disappeared from his face, set instantly into a composed, smooth mask.

“As you will, Warchief,” Thrall replies after a moment, and the door opens.

She doesn’t come into the room, just leans against the door jamb, a study in casual mockery.

“I see the boy is awake,” she notes.

“He is,” Anduin replies flatly.

“Have your negotiations concluded?” Thrall asks, tone neutral, and she shrugs one-shouldered.

“Near enough,” she says vaguely. “That unpleasant little mage friend of yours will arrive for exchange from Ratchet just after midday.”

Anduin remains expressionless, but Thrall gets the impression he’d grind his teeth if it wouldn’t be such an obvious point to Sylvanas, who is smirking at him openly.

“What are your terms?” Anduin asks, and he sounds of nothing so much as polite curiosity.

“You’re my prisoner, not my treating partner, boy-king, and not diverting enough to chat with. Your allies can tell you what missteps they have made once you are safely in their soft bosom, and you can take comfort in them for what little time you have until I tire of defeating you.”

“Or we could simply end it now,” he says, and the mildness in his voice is patently false, the barest veil on dark iron. “I would as soon not play confessional to yet another failed Warchief after a war that I do not want.”

The allusion to Garrosh is electric - she snarls at him, leaning into the room to catch the door.

“You keep telling me so, little king - I hope that it gives you some comfort when you lose it.”

She whirls, closing the door behind her - not a slam, as he had expected, but a very firm close, neat click loud in the suddenly quiet room.

“Not always the most diplomatic of Azeroth’s leaders,” Thrall says dryly, and Anduin makes a sharp noise, inarticulately and directionlessly angry. All of the expression carefully smoothed out of his face is there now, rigid and hard where before it had still had those hints of sweetness.

“While I appreciate the favor you are showing me, what is to stop me from leaving right now?”

“Hunger?” Thrall hazards, and Anduin looks unimpressed. He sighs. “Would you pit your strength against mine, Anduin?”

“Would you sacrifice the position of the Earthen Ring as a neutral body, Guardian?”

He speaks with that same absolute, tempered mildness he was using with Sylvanas, and it throws Thrall more than he would like to be spoken to as a political enemy.

“I am not the one who brought you in, High King,” he stresses, "and perhaps you could turn my mind to your will, but what of the guards? The city, at peak activity this late in the afternoon? If you believe you could control any and all who notice you, then you are more than welcome to try. I seek only to offer what assistance I can to an unfortunate situation.”

“Our situation would be less unfortunate if you had not saddled us with warmongers in the first place,” Anduin says sharply. 

Thrall rounds on him at that - anger balloons rapidly in his chest, fast enough to keep the quiet, slimy tendril of guilt raising its head pushed beneath it.

“You are in the center of a city with which you are currently at war,” Thrall tells him, and he can feel the growl rumbling behind his words, “Neutrality allows me the unique privilege of ensuring that whatever exchange is negotiated may go as smoothly as possible.”

“I know, I’m -” Anduin starts, looking genuinely stricken, but Thrall cuts his hand through the air sharply and he shuts his mouth.

“Are you really so eager to keep Varok in your stockages?” he asks, and Anduin bites his lip.

“I don’t suppose you could find a stupider man to barter me for,” he says weakly - an apology of sorts, maybe.

“No, and neither can you - a good lesson in why it’s recommended one avoids capture,” Thrall says, and he means for it to sound sly or joking, but it just sounds harsh, unforgiving.

Now Anduin’s not hiding behind the cool, collected High King facade, he’s shockingly expressive, and his face is miserable, ashamed.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly.

“It is not a sentiment I am unfamiliar with,” Thrall replies stiffly.

“You cannot be held responsible for the actions of another,” Anduin urges, and Thrall rolls his eyes.

“You were the one to say it, not I.”

“I’m sorry,” he repeats miserably, “it was unkind, and unfair besides; certainly no way to speak to someone whose friendship I value.”

“Peace,” Thrall sighs, and in reaching to calm his anger, finds it dissipating already, leaving only tiredness in its wake. “There is a washroom through the door - go, draw a bath. It will help your equilibrium. I will find supper, and this will be nothing.”

“You’re right, I’m… out of sorts.”

“I wonder why,” Thrall says dryly, and Anduin manages a small, uncertain smile, half-hidden behind his hair.

Thrall busies himself finding the towels and a clean shirt, leaving Anduin to move carefully to the washroom without audience.

His face flickers a little as he leans carefully against the door, accepts the bundle of cloth from Thrall with both hands.

“Do you still require healing?” he asks, and Anduin shakes his head.

“The bell still lingers,” he says quietly, “when it’s cold, or I guess when I’m lugged unconscious about the place. Another reason to avoid capture, I suppose. The hot water will help.”

His mouth twists, but when he goes to say something, Thrall catches his hands, covers them.

“Don’t apologize again,” he says firmly. "Sharp words under stress are not so great a trespass.”

“I wasn’t going to.”

“Weren’t you?”

Anduin bites his lip and chuffs a laugh.

“Maybe a little,” he admits. His eyes are warm, and so is his hand beneath Thrall. He twists his topmost hand to catch their fingers together, squeezes them.

“Let us start again,” he says, face earnest - and, frankly, dirty. “It has been some time since we have seen each other; let us simply spend it as friends.”

“Of course,” Thrall says, and Anduin beams at him.

After Anduin has disappeared into the bathroom, Thrall opens the door to the hallway. Three mages sit where before there was a single posted guard at the end of the hall; they look at him sharply as the door opens, but return to their conversation quickly, and that same attendant stands at quiet attention across from the door.

“Dinner, Guardian?” he asks politely, and Thrall nods, thanks him, retreats back into the room and grimaces at the closed door.

It’s uncomfortable, having servantry. He kept it minimal when he was Warchief, and it’s a non-issue in the Earthen Ring, but such a blatant sign of changes grates at him, every time.

He fishes letters out from the bag by the door, brought in before he arrived - probably by that self-same attendant - and pages through them. There’s nothing urgent, nothing he hasn’t seen already at this point, but the soft susurration of movement in water from the next room is surprisingly distracting.

It works, eventually, losing himself in reports from around Azeroth, so it manages to surprise him again when the door whispers open and Anduin re-emerges.

He does look better for it, seeming settled - clear-eyed, and even tempered. The shirt is comically large on him, hits mid-thigh like a short nightshirt, leaving bare long legs and high-arched feet, toes curled against cold stone. It hangs low enough to show skin still flushed from the heat of the water, and a fine lattice of scars peeks out across one collarbone. His hair hangs heavy and brassy with water, clinging against the long line of his neck, turning the neckline translucent in uneven lines.

“The hose is something of a lost cause,” he says apologetically. He’s moving much more easily now, and crosses the room to take residence on the couch beside Thrall, tucks his legs up beneath him neatly.

“Didn’t think to pack court clothing?”

“Apparently not,” Anduin jokes back, low and friendly.

Time passes in peaceable quiet as Thrall finishes his notes, puts the papers carefully aside. When he turns back, he finds Anduin watching him quietly - not staring, but not not staring, either.

He raises an eyebrow, and Anduin quirks his mouth up a little before looking away.

“Will you tell me of Silithus? I have scarcely seen Kalimdor, even now.”

It’s asked very sincerely, as though his description would be something of measure, to be held close; Thrall considers the question.

“It’s a desert,” he says after a moment, “but not one like any others you may have seen. Where Tanaris is bright white sand and blinding sun, and Durotar is red and so dry, there’s a darkness there, even in the middle of the day - as though the sun is permanently shrouded in clouds.”

Anduin’s gaze sharpens.

“A strong presence of Shadow, do you think?”

“Perhaps - the shadow workers I have seen are strong there, though it could be coincidence; my sense for shadow is quite poor.”

Anduin seems to consider this, tilting his head a little. He’s digging fingers into the dip at the side of his knee, and the honey-thick gold of the Light shines from his fingertips for just a moment before settling, disappearing into the latticework of scarring there; remnant of Garrosh, no doubt.

“Does it still bother you?”

“Hm? Oh -” He looks sheepish, tucking damp hair behind one ear. “Not as much. It swells very easily, though, and I get used to… caring for it, I suppose. It’s kind of a silly habit, though.”

Thrall covers his hand, concentrates - calls a gentle thread of water to follow where the echo of Light still lingers. Anduin takes in a sharp breath, and meets his eyes, huge and dark.

“Thrall,” he starts, and they’re interrupted a second time by a gentle knock on the door. He wrinkles his nose.

“If it’s her again, I’m going to be rude,” he says conspiratorially, “and nobody can stop me.”

Thrall snorts.

“Very princely,” he says.

“Not at all,” Anduin says cheerily. “But quite Kingly, in my experience.”

Frankly, given human Kings at least, Thrall’s experience as well.

A knock, slightly louder this time, and Thrall gets up to answer the door.

Gardann again; he murmurs something subservient, tray balanced carefully. He stands neutrally, but Thrall still gets the impression he wants very badly to peer around him.

Thrall thanks him gravely, accepting the tray.

“I saw my son,” Gardann says suddenly, and his voice is gravelled with more than undeath. “He was a child when I died. But I saw him again, at Lordaeron.”

“I’m glad.” Anduin appears quietly behind him, and Thrall takes the tray away to the table to give them the illusion of privacy.

“The Dark Lady liberated us from mindless servitude,” Gardann says, and passion shines through that dead rasp. “If we were to find a cure I would stay in her Undercity, but he is a good boy, and I am grateful that I got to see him.”

“Thank you,” Anduin says, quiet and fiercely sincere. “I know it is not easy to speak of these things, but I am honored to have met you today.”

A helpless sort of affection rises in Thrall’s chest. Even here, captive in the center of an enemy capital, he makes friends and holds court. If anything can give him hope that one day they will see a lasting peace, it’s Anduin and his seemingly endless ability to - as Baine had said, make friends of them all.

Well. Save Sylvanas, but she has never been open to friendship.

The attendant bows over his hand, in the old human style, and even standing barefoot in an oversized shirt and wet hair, Anduin manages to carry himself such that it doesn’t seem out of place or inappropriate.

“I hope you might see him again someday, in happy times,” Anduin tells him quietly.

He leaves, and Anduin shuts the door gently - he seems impossibly sad, but shakes himself of it visibly before crossing to sit down.

“It will come eventually,” Thrall says quietly. “No war can last forever.”

“Long enough that I am used to speaking in capacity as King without pants,” Anduin says drolly, and Thrall snorts, motions to the other chair, which Anduin takes quickly enough.

“That happens quite quickly, I find,” Thrall says. “There is always someone too desperate to talk to you to wait until you open the door yourself.”

“Will _anything_ stop them?” Anduin asks plaintively, and Thrall grins.

“A fierce enough mate.”

“Don’t tell the house of nobles, but that may be the most compelling argument I have heard so far.”

“No betrothal on the horizon, then?”

“Not for lack of urging from those around me,” he says wryly. “But how can I marry, and then immediately leave them behind to stand at warfronts? No - it is the wrong time to think of such things.”

“I had a similar conversation with Eitrigg a few years ago,” Thrall says thoughtfully, “and he told me that times of upheaval are exactly the time; that to take comfort in hearth and mate and creation is even more vital in times of destruction.”

“Heeded their advice closely, I see,” Anduin teases, and Thrall shrugs.

“I’m not sure I agree with it, but I’m not sure I disagree, either. It seems that the world is always in some dire state, and waiting for it to resolve itself may mean waiting your entire life.”

“Some things are worth not waiting for?” Anduin says cheekily, and Thrall rolls his eyes.

“Fill your mouth, that I might be spared such poor jokes,” he says with mock severity, and Anduin goes an alarming shade of pink, but he laughs, eyes flickering to his plate.

It’s light fare, and they eat in companionable silence - Thrall with care, finding himself falling into the table standards of his youth, which take a little more time around tusks, and Anduin in neat little bites at a surprisingly high speed.

Anduin makes some light conversation to cover the difference - nothing questions, very likely the sort of manners he would have been taught from his crib; about the seasoning of the meat, how he finds Orgrimmar after his years away, is he seeing anyone, are their various mutual friends doing well. Thrall answers readily enough - an earthroot based rub that’s popular this time of year, changed but still dear to him, no, yes - but there’s still a sort of charge to Anduin’s easy manner, that peculiar intensity of his dimmed as he thinks.

They stack the plates to one side, and Anduin keeps looking at him, but never quite full on, cutting him into pieces - his hands, his mouth, the point of his shoulder.

“There are options besides marriage,” Anduin says quietly, “for hearth & heart.”

Thrall looks at him sharply.

“Oh?” he asks, cautious, and Anduin meets his eyes for just a moment before flickering away.

“Given friendship, and trust, comfort may be sought from many sources.”

Anduin’s looking at him again, brilliant blue eyes shy beneath long lashes. He's caught the bottom of his shirt in one hand and he's tweaking the fabric, a nervous tic that stands as a constant reminder of how much pale, clean skin is on display. The shorter hair around his face has dried in places, and a soft blonde cloud is forming.

“You seek to stroke my ego?”

“Not just that,” Anduin says mischievously, and Thrall laughs at that, warm and good natured; Anduin’s smiling back at him, and finds his way around the table to stand close to him.

“You are my friend, and I count myself very fortunate to say so,” Anduin says. “Perhaps it is naive, but I cannot think but that fate has transpired to bring me here - that if I am to have a single night in your company, it must be for a reason. I have admired you for a long time, as I think you know.” And that charm is back full force in the curve of a half-smile and the casual tilt of his hips. “But we have not had occasion to speak since I have gained even ground.”

“As even as you’ll get, maybe,” and Anduin grins.

“I believe I got quite done growing up these few years past, yes, though I hope I might still fill _out_.”

“You seem a good size to me.”

“A good size for what?”

Thrall doesn't answer that. There’s warmth in Anduin’s gaze as he glances towards him beneath long eyelashes, and though the heat has long faded from his skin, there’s redness developing across his cheekbones and down the long line of his neck where he tips it back to catch Thrall’s eye.

Thrall’s mouth is dry, but water will be no help.

“I spent some time thinking, in that bath,” Anduin says conversationally. “Tell me, in a room full of people, why did you volunteer to take me - not to a cell, but to your own rooms?”

Thrall looks at him helplessly.

“I consider you a friend, Anduin - I would see you safe.”

“Baine also considers me a friend,” and there’s such danger to the soft way he’s speaking, leaning towards him, “but I am not there, am I?”

Anduin lifts a hand, and traces Thrall’s lip with one thumb - telegraphing so carefully and so, so slowly, before leaning in to kiss him, cautious but strangely sure, tips of his fingers grazing lightly against Thrall’s jaw.

Thrall takes the excuse to touch him immediately, runs both hands over his back and feels out the lines of his waist, hidden under white billowing cloth; runs long, clean lines as far as he can easily reach.

With a hand low on the back of his neck, Anduin presses in - deepens the kiss into something hot and open, surprisingly dirty, pressing their bodies close enough together that Thrall can feel when the quality of his breathing changes, the twitch of his cock becoming invested in the proceedings.

“Are you experienced?” he asks softly, and Anduin immediately goes cat-eyed and cautious.

“Some,” he says, and Thrall does not laugh at him, though it is a near thing - there's a flattering element to it, but mostly it adds to the absurd feeling of the situation. A king of Stormwind propositioning him in déshabillé and a state of kidnap is not something he would have considered as a possible outcome of visiting Orgrimmar even in the sort of fantasies he does not think about outside of the moment.

Then again, while he had liked Varian well enough by the end… well. Perhaps it would have entered some fantasy, in some form, given the opportunity to meet Anduin more recently, with his long limbs and sweet face and apparent disinterest in hiding his desire to scale Thrall like his own personal mountain.

He's gone shy again, waiting on some reply, but Thrall had nothing to say about it and so instead he kisses him back, careful of his own tusks against delicate human skin.

Thrall takes his time with him, exploring the pale stretches of his skin, as Anduin corrals him towards to bed and get them both disrobed without ever letting their mouths part for more than the briefest necessary moments.

He lets Anduin push him to sit back against the wall, but arranges him over his lap; one hand covers his cock entirely. Anduin’s not particularly delicate, for a human, but extremely so taken in comparison. Thrall feels mischievous, almost, delighted by the sweetness of him - there’s a growing flush down his chest, and his mouth, which he keeps opening and closing as though to say something he can’t quite get out, is reddened and hot with the attention.

Anduin tips his head back, exposing the long line of his neck, and the urge to turn him over - to snarl, to bite, to fuck directly into and overwhelm him with it, is… not insignificant.

Thrall settles for satisfied growling low in his chest - Anduin opens his eyes, smooths both hands across his chest like he’s trying to find the noise.

“I’m going to try something,” he says vaguely, and starts shuffling backwards. After a moment, Thrall loosens the arm around his waist and lets him.

His cock lays heavy across one thigh, and Anduin arranges himself on Thrall’s side between his legs, lays a wet, open-mouthed kiss near the base, works himself up to a careful attempt to take Thrall into his mouth. His lips stretch out around it, and he apparently approaches sucking cock with the same studied determination he does everything, breath slow & careful as he takes in as much as he can.

Thrall runs his fingers through the small, soft hairs at the back of Anduin’s neck, mostly dry and curling against his fingers, down along the point of his jaw, rough with the barest beginning of a beard; Anduin leans into the touch, just a little. He only takes a small amount of the whole, jaw stretched uncomfortably wide and drooling - his eyes keep floating closed, and his own erection slides against Thrall’s leg, the occasional rough little thrust as though he can’t quite help himself as Thrall continues to thicken in his mouth, harder than he has been in a long time. Thrall presses very gently into the hollow of his cheek, feels the hard line of his cock through the soft layer of skin.

Anduin stops the warm suction for a moment, breathing around him, cock still against his tongue. When he starts again, he tilts his head and sucks hard, manages to pull more of it into his mouth and down the fluttering structure of his throat, just for a few moments but that sudden hot, wet slide is enough, and while Thrall manages not to thrust towards it control is more difficult than he remembers and he’s growling again, involuntary warning as he comes, hot streaks pushing into Anduin’s mouth - who coughs, rears back and off with some immediate difficulty, his entire face bright red and wet; he struggles desperately upwards until he’s buried his face in Thrall’s neck, half-kneeling and a hand stripping his cock, fast and desperate, whimpering nonsense in the scant moments it takes him to shudder against him, coming in warm streaks against both their chests, breath wet as he pants against him.

He’s sleepy-eyed, afterwards, but pushes at Thrall until he rolls onto his back on the bed and settles against him, an arm across his waist, head tucked beneath his chin. They’re not clean, and it will be unpleasant later, but with Anduin warm and pliant in his arms, it doesn’t seem like any great hardship to leave that as a problem for the morrow.

The bright, pale light of morning falls directly across Thrall’s face, and he opens his eyes.

Anduin is alert in his arms already, eyes half-lidded to watch him wake, a gentle hand stroking his side.

“Good morning,” Anduin whispers, and Thrall closed his eyes for a long moment before opening then again.

“Hmm,” he rumbles, a sort-of reply, not really awake yet. He sniffs, pulls Anduin close and huffs into his hair.

“Early,” Thrall complains, and Anduin tilts his head back to lay a kiss on bottom of his jaw.

“Not much time left,” Anduin whispers, shifts until he can move one hand to stroke almost shyly at his cock, hard with the morning.

Thrall chuckles sleepily into his hair, runs one large hand over his ass - moves to catch his mouth, eyes still closed.

He's warm and somnolent, and follows Anduin’s lead lazily, lets him push him over and roll on top of him for a languid, messy affair of open-mouthed kisses and leveraging his hips to slide their cocks against each other - a slow, easy build until it isn’t, until Anduin’s voice slips his control and he’s gasping against Thrall’s mouth, grabbing at him until Thrall growls into his ear, and that’s what pushes him over the edge, sobbing out a reply.

A gentle knock indicates their breakfast about an hour later, which Thrall brings back to the bed so they can keep laying together as they work their way through ham and porridge.

Anduin is surprisingly tactile, now that he’s been given license - presses sleepy kisses against his shoulder, scratches gently at his chest, works an arm around his waist and rests his head on Thrall’s thigh.

“I don’t want to go,” he admits. “I - no. I do, I don’t want to walk away from my life. But… still, I don’t.”

“I don’t want you to either,” Thrall says quietly, brushes fingers gently through his hair. “But we will see each other again. And you knew you could not keep me.”

“I never thought I’d catch you, either,” Anduin says honestly, and that sincerity is so sweet he can’t leave it, pulls him up to press a kiss into his hair.

“Maybe I shall keep you then,” he says, and Anduin laughs into his chest.

“Ah, but you’ve fed me now, so what is there to keep me with?”

“I’m sure I’ll find something,” he says archly, and Anduin snorts, then goes quiet for a moment.

“My father told me there would be times I resented my position,” he says seriously, “but in truth, this is the closest I’ve come.”

Thrall tightens an arm around him.

“What would you do instead?”

“I don’t know. Priest work, I suppose.”

“Join a band of heroes and wander Azeroth?”

“Sounds tiring,” Anduin says. “I could be a farmer.” He’s still joking, but sadness presses down at the corners of him, just a little.

“I’ll weave you a hat,” Thrall says, and slaps his thigh lightly when another knock comes to the door.

“That’s likely to be clothing for you,” he says, and Anduin presses another kiss to his bicep before rolling off the bed to his feet, stretching out high into the air. Anduin yawns, a huge tongue-curling affair, shows all those square, flat teeth, and disappears back into the bed as Thrall passes him to shelter at least a little from whatever eyes might lie behind the door.

It is clothing, but held by Sylvanas herself rather than one of her attendants.

“We leave shortly,” she says, eyes flickering behind him - and genuine shock washes over her face, chased by half a dozen other expressions before settling into cold amusement.

“Haven’t lost him, I see,” she says.

He presses his lips together, and so does she.

Hers twitch.

“Just say it,” he says tiredly, and she lets the smirk break across her face.

“You did say that you would take him.”

Thrall sighs heavily, and closes the door on her laughter.

“Thirty minutes,” she calls through the door, “and bring him out clean!”

“Oh, Light,” Anduin’s voice is morose behind him, “I’ll need to tell Aunt Jaina before she does.”

Thrall snorts.

She’s handed him a hooded brown robe in the style favored by warlocks, a hood which should do well enough to let him pass for an elf without further inspection. Anduin pulls it on quickly; it’s a little long on him, but passable, though he disappears inside it.

Sylvanas manages to refrain from saying anything further, largely ignoring Anduin’s presence - although the looks she casts in Thrall’s direction are very arch, and he has the distinct and very embarrassed feeling that she will have plenty to say to him upon their return.

They depart in subtlety from one of the upper balconies of Grommash Hold on three riders; Anduin doubles with Thrall, still technically a prisoner, but Thrall is quietly glad for the extra time.

After they’ve taken off, and the riders’ flight smooths out as they get all of the height they need, Anduin sighs and relaxes back into him. He holds onto Thrall’s arm around him, strokes his thumb idly across the back of his hand. Thrall hides a kiss behind his ear, and doesn’t want to give him back. Anduin squeezes his hand.

She’s sent word ahead, because when they touch down in Ratchet they’re surrounded by a small contingent of heroes of various types who escort them through to the small inn. She leaves the heroes at the bottom of the stairs, and Anduin pushes back the rough hood as they pass the threshold into the suite they’ve been directed to - the largest in the inn, by the look of it.

Jaina Proudmoore and Genn Greymane are both standing, stone-faced and grim in their formal battle gear, flanking Varok Saurfang who rises slowly from a low chair as they enter. He looks unharmed, but more worn than Thrall has seen him in a long time.

Sylvanas crosses the room rapidly - snarls at them, when Jaina takes in a sharp breath to stay something - and she’s solicitous, slides her hand below his elbow and shoots furious looks back at them as he grimaces silently. They make their way across the room slowly - Anduin reaches for him, and the old orc says nothing, but lets him catch his hand.

“Throm’ka,” he says kindly, and in surprisingly good Orcish, “aka’magosh.”

It’s the first thing anyone has said since they got here, and that seems appropriate, somehow. Right.

His hand glows where they touch, and Sylvanas doesn’t say anything, but cold bleeds from her.

“I will return with the bat riders,” Thrall tells her in an undertone, “if you would like to take him back more directly.”

Gratitude flickers quickly across her face. She’s an odd one, Sylvanas - doesn’t care about anyone, right up until she does, and Thrall’s fairly sure she didn’t care this much for the old orc before he was taken prisoner.

Anduin drops Saurfang’s hand, and they say goodbye - incredibly, given everything, they seem genuinely friendly.

“Then we shall see you shortly, Earth Warder,” she replies, and presses her fingers lightly into Saurfang’s arm. He’s proud, but he still walks slowly - age has come for him in the intervening months, and unkindly.

She’s the only one who remains now, of the four of them who first came together the form the Horde. It presses on him terribly, some days. As she handles Saurfang with tenderness, making their way slowly from the room, he wonders if it wears on her, too.

The sharp arcane rush of a portal opening and closing nearby echoes through the building.

“Anduin,” Jaina chokes out, and the hard facade is ripped away all at once as she half-stumbles across the room to fall into his arms.

“Hey Auntie,” he says affectionately, and buries his face in her hair.

Thrall goes to move away, thinking to give them privacy, but her hand shoots out and catches his sleeve.

“Thank you,” Jaina tells him raggedly, though she doesn’t look up, “I can’t… thank you.”

Genn has crossed the room far more sedately, but in his own hard way does not look far from the same sentiment - a rough hand cupping the boy’s shoulder, face jagged.

“Peace,” Anduin says kindly, “both of you - I am unharmed, thanks in no small part to the presence of an old friend.”

Jaina pulls back, eyes bright with tears, and hugs Thrall as well - brief, but hard, and he returns it tenderly. Genn has a hand on the back of Anduin’s head and their foreheads together, eyes closed. He murmurs something too quiet for Thrall to hear, and Anduin chuffs a quiet laugh in reply.

Between Sylvanas’ poorly concealed attentiveness and the naked fear newly banked on the faces of Jaina and Genn, he’s so sad for them - whatever else they are, whatever their responsibilities and culpability in the situation they’re also just people, scared for each other.

“It is good to see you, Jaina,” he says gently, “I will be near Stormwind on Earthen Ring business soon.”

She steps back, smiling as she wipes the tears from her face. It only takes her a moment, but she visibly pulling herself together, smoothing back out into the battle-mage affect she had when she arrived.

“Thank you, Earth Warder,” Genn says from behind her, and he inclines his head politely.

“He would not have come to harm in any case,” Thrall says in gentle reproof. Anduin frees himself, and catches Thrall’s hand himself.

“I will see you soon?” he asks lowly, and Thrall nods.

“You will,” he reassures him. “We have much to discuss, I think.”

Anduin’s smile is like sunlight on frost, slow and sweet and warm.


End file.
